


Young and Blue

by tresbyun



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 09:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12340263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tresbyun/pseuds/tresbyun
Summary: All Oh Sehun wanted was a live-in editor who cleaned well. Enter Kim Jongin, and the semi-recluse finds himself getting more than he bargained for.





	Young and Blue

**I**

 

When Jongin finally arrives in Auckland, the overhead skies are dull and grey. As it is, he’s experiencing his first bout of jetlag, and barely notices the lack of consistency between the clouds and the forecast on his iPod that has the day down as sunny at a temperature of twenty-three degrees (Celsius, not Fahrenheit—Jongin doesn’t fuck with people who use the latter).

 

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand, he uses the other to hail a cab down. He mumbles a deep, unaccented “to the harbor, please” before loading his luggage into the car. As he practically hurls it over, he wonders if he could’ve done with fewer clothes—after all, it’s not as if his salary doesn’t let him afford more than a few luxury brands. Having said that, he’s always been the type to find sentiment in jerseys worn since college.

 

It isn’t even a minute into the car ride that the driver, a man who fills his seat to the brim, starts chatting him up in rapid kiwi dialect. Jongin entertains him for a while before making a show of putting his headphones on and tuning him out, though not before the driver throws in a comment on how handsome he is. There’s nothing new to this—Jongin has had his fair share of white, thick-necked taxi drivers when he was still based in Europe, most of whom had been all too eager to strike up idle conversations with the next passenger.

 

Speaking of Europe—Jongin wonders how his previous client is doing, though he shakes any questioning thoughts away soon after. It doesn’t matter—it _shouldn’t_ matter, he quips himself, after the incident that had put him on hiatus for two years. During that period, he kept on reading, everything and anything but the fantasy genre, and taking up odd jobs here and there at small publication companies, but he wasn’t exactly exercising his gift of pointing out mistakes and beautifully repainting them (as Kyungsoo puts it) the way he did when he was still travelling the world, moving from one big client to the next.

 

 _Moving from one client to the next_ after _making them big,_ he corrects himself proudly.

 

But then three weeks ago, he received a call from his owlish friend. By then Jongin had assumed Kyungsoo had completely given up on him, after multiple attempts at pulling him back in the industry and getting rejected time after time, client after client. “Please, I know you even turned down that huge project last year, but _please_ consider this one.” Kyungsoo had sounded desperate—and boy, was he good at that. It didn’t help that he had caught the editor in a good mood either, after having downed a few glasses of wine, and Jongin couldn’t help but groan, “I’ll consider it.” His tone had indicated that he wouldn’t, really, and Kyungsoo had known it too, but the fact that Jongin didn’t flat out reject him was more than enough as an answer back then.

 

Which was why when Jongin called up his friend later that week at night saying he’ll do it, Kyungsoo had let out the most melodic sigh of relief over the phone.

 

After that, it was a whole five minutes of endearing scolding about how Jongin really shouldn’t waste his life away like that, with a few snarky remarks thrown in here and there about how if he could, Kyungsoo would return the receipt of their friendship and demand a refund due to how much stress Jongin had caused him during those years. Jongin had scoffed at his friend’s dramatic shenanigans.

 

There was a silence at the end of the rant that indicated hesitation on Kyungsoo’s part. “Not that I’m not grateful that you chose to take this up—”

 

Jongin snorted. “Kyungsoo, if you think I’m doing this for you—”

 

“But why?”

 

Pause. “What do you mean why?”

 

“Why did you agree to this? You’ve shut down every single one of my offer in the past two years, why now?” To this, Jongin gave no response. He only glanced at the moon outside, her silver outline shimmering through the faint clouds. Getting no response, Kyungsoo sighed. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Just be careful. Don’t fuck up… alright?” The _again_ was muted.

 

Thinking back at it, Jongin truly feels grateful for his friend. Do Kyungsoo, the short, petite man who intimidated peers on the daily—how he managed to become the most sought-after networker within the industry in the span of a few years was still a mystery to Jongin. True, he had the heart of a softball, always coming into Jongin’s apartment to clean his mess and feed him congee whenever he fell sick, but saucer eyes paired with severe astigmatism didn’t exactly make for the best first impression, and Lord knows how important that aspect is in the marketing industry.

 

 _Not to mention how awkward he can get,_ Jongin thinks. But then again, that awkwardness had an element of self-awareness to it, which only made Kyungsoo endearing during social events. Of course, all this isn’t factoring into account the reality that he was simply _amazing_ at his job—Kyungsoo not only had an established breadth of publishing companies and independent authors he was in constant contact with, but he knew how to mix and match them together based on their different styles. So far, there hasn’t been an indie writer that didn’t flourish under Kyungsoo’s guidance.

 

Jongin finds himself wrapped up in the memories of him and his childhood friend; he thinks about how they practically grew up together through school, college, and then after getting two different degrees at different colleges in different provinces, found themselves gravitating back towards each other, this time in one of Seoul’s newer publishing companies.

 

The glass screen playing his life films, however, shatter when the driver yells angrily, loud enough to break through The Weeknd on full blast. Jongin takes off his headphones and asks, “Is everything alright?”

 

The driver huffs. “These wretched birds have been flying around the goddamn skies and one of them just crashed against the bloody windshield!” He proceeds to piece together a string of colorful words to describe said birds, most of which are slang lost on Jongin. The latter glances outside—the driver’s right, flocks of crows are circling the dull skies, as if in a frenzy. It’s causing traffic to slow down considerably, but Jongin isn’t on a tight schedule anyway, so he puts his headphones back on and lets Bumkey lull him to sleep.

 

**II**

 

When they finally arrive at the harbor, Jongin pays the driver according to the meter, and readies himself for another long ride, this time by sea.

 

The streets of Auckland are interesting, to say the least. Their people walk around barefoot, a natural sight that’s been deformalized by most of modern society. While waiting in line to board the ferry, he sees a child of his niece’s age do the same, their independence already marked by the absence of any accompanying adult. Jongin’s impression of the capital, despite having barely stood on its land, is already more than positive.

 

It takes nearly two hours to arrive at Waiheke Island. As Jongin follows the crowd of commuters out of the gates, the slick-looking Korean man standing at the port reception catches his eye immediately.

 

The man is shorter than he is, yet he easily carries the overwhelming coat he’s wearing. His fake glasses sit on the rim of a perfect nose that scrunches up ever so slightly as he checks for the time. Jongin isn’t expecting anyone, but when the smaller man looks up and beams at him, it becomes clear that _he_ is the expected one in this situation.

 

“Hello, you must be Mr. Kim Jongin?” the fair man asks, striding towards him with an outstretched hand. Jongin accepts it, surprised by the strength hidden behind the petite-looking man. “I’m Kim Junmyeon, Mr. Oh’s manager.”

 

Jongin nods. “Nice to meet you, Junmyeon. I didn’t realize I was being expected.”

 

Junmyeon lets out a laugh, and Jongin notes how he’s the type to laugh with his whole face—white teeth showing, skin crinkling, eyes taking on the shape of crescents. The man is almost as endearing as Kyungsoo, he thinks. “Don’t be silly. Did you expect to make your way to Mr. Oh’s house on your own?” he asks, but the question is clearly rhetorical as he turns on his heels and walks away, prompting Jongin to follow suit.

 

The question paints a frown on Jongin’s face—the man was right, _did_ Jongin think he was going to make his own way to his client’s house? He had planned to get a taxi, but looking back at the details Kyungsoo sent him, the address itself hadn’t been very clear—not to mention his knack for getting lost, either. As if reading his mind, Junmyeon says, “And just so you know, Mr. Oh doesn’t open his doors to anyone unless they’re accompanied by me.” Well, if that doesn’t reaffirm Jongin of his silliness, he doesn’t know what will. He only hopes Kyungsoo doesn’t find out, or the younger would go all mother hen on his ass.

 

Junmyeon either has a very generous boss, or he’s naturally rich, is what Jongin thinks when he realizes that the red Lamborghini, parked in the middle of the pavement for onlookers to turn their heads and spare a second look, will be their mode of transport. He blushes a little as eyes land on both him and Jumnyeon before they finally get into the car.

 

“Nice car,” Jongin mumbles, marveling at the interior. Despite his wage, it has never occurred to Jongin to buy a car. From Korea to Europe, he’s always relied on public transport to get him to places. He never stays in one place for too long anyway so having to buy a car each time is a waste of money, he concluded. Kyungsoo once recommended renting, but Jongin didn’t find the concept appealing. _I’ll stick to buses and trains, thanks,_ he’d told his friend.

 

“Thanks,” Junmyeon hums, starting the engine and putting his seatbelt on. They barely exchange a word after that, Junmyeon focusing on the road, his speed betraying the fact that his car is a sports model. Jongin doesn’t mind—silence has always been comfortable to him. However, as the drive goes on, he finds himself staring at the man in the driver seat. If he had to describe Junmyeon, _immaculate_ seemed fitting. His clothes are well-coordinated with no sign of a wrinkle; there isn’t a hair out of place.

 

“Aren’t you ogling too much?”

Jongin snaps out of his trance, looks up to find Junmyeon frowning at him and then turns away, red. “I’m sorry, it wasn’t on purpose.” He glances at the other through the mirror, and he’s about to apologize again when Junmyeon suddenly laughs aloud.

 

“Christ, don’t be so serious. I’m just joking. You gotta loosen up a bit.” Junmyeon places a hand on Jongin’s shoulder, giving small rubs of reassurance. All of a sudden, Jongin feels like a small child. He keeps his eyes on the window, observing the other only through the reflection. Junmyeon smirks, meeting his eyes and giving him a wink. “Look all you want.”

 

Jongin groans, feeling himself sink further into his seat in embarrassment. Junmyeon only laughs harder.

 

**III**

 

Jongin has always thought of himself as relatively well-off, but that relative doesn’t apply with his new client (and his corresponding Lambo-driving manager).

 

He learns this when Junmyeon drives up a slope towards a stretch of land that ends in a cliff, overlooking sparkling blue. The land is in the form of a huge clearing, unfurnished with some surrounding low trees. From the entrance the house seems small, but as Junmyeon drivers closer and closer to the front, Jongin’s eyes grow into saucers as he registers the size of the house.

 

The house—or rather, _mansion_ —can easily be mistaken as a foreign embassy, its greyscale minimalist design standing out against its vibrant surrounding. The garage is enough to accommodate four to five cars, but only one lone Benz can be found parked in the far corner. The car is as grey and dull as the house, a contrast to the red Lambo that Junmyeon is now reverse-parking into the garage.

 

“His debut work really got him all of this?” Jongin asks as they step out of the car.

 

Junmyeon raises a handsome eyebrow. “You happen to forget that Mr. Oh is a well-renowned model within the fashion industry, though it isn’t a lie to say that _The Eve of The War_ propelled him into a life of wealth.”

 

Jongin frowned. “Wrong book?”

 

There’s a moment where Junmyeon freezes in his track, but if Jongin had blinked he would never have noticed it, because he resumes his pace as swiftly as he cut it. “Oh sorry, I was thinking of another client.” There’s a nervous edge to his laugh, but Jongin is too preoccupied with how massive the gate is instead. The gaps in the gate hint at a well-kept garden, from what Jongin can make out from the top of some small statuesque shrubs.

 

Junmyeon rings the bell once. It takes only three counts for a calm voice to break through the intercom. “ _Hello?_ ”

 

“Hey, it’s me.”

 

“ _Sorry I don’t know a ‘me’. Try a Doe or Ray—”_

“Shut up and open the door, Sehun.”

 

“ _Yes, sir._ ”

 

Even through the intercom, Jongin picks up on the somber drawl in the writer’s voice. It isn’t one that stems from laziness however—he just sounds like someone who doesn’t use his voice very much. But replaying the hidden man’s voice in his head is useless, as the sound of the gate opening drown out any other thoughts he can conjure.

 

As expected, a little but attractive garden lies inside the perimeters. Rather than soil, the ground is tiled with rocks in the style of a mini Zen garden. There’s a mini fountain at the far end of the garden, its flowing waters vaguely audible from a distance. The low trees are trimmed in traditional circles, and a discarded rake lies carelessly in the middle of it. Jongin wonders if the owner personally tends to it every morning, or if his potentially bad temper scared off his ex-employee, who then ran away from the tyranny of his multimillionaire boss, leaving the poor rake to fend for itself.

 

But Jongin’s fantasies fly out of the window when the front door opens, revealing a very tall, very attractive and from the looks of it, a very sleep-deprived young man. Yet even with his deep eye bags, Oh Sehun manages to carry his shabby guise almost handsomely, though Jongin expects no less from the internationally renowned model.

 

“Well? Come in before someone shoots me.”

 

Even though he’s heard the voice through intercom, it still surprises him how rich and smooth his client’s voice is. It reminds Jongin of his favorite peanut butter brand, the one without the chunky bits. But before he can remove his shoes and step into the house, he’s stopped by Oh Sehun himself. “And who are you?”

 

Jongin blinks. “Excuse me?”

 

“I asked, _who are you?_ ” Sehun asks again—bluntly, but not harshly. He’s looking in Jongin’s general direction, but doesn’t really meet the shorter man’s gaze. Instead his eyes rake the other’s figure from head to toe. Jongin returns the gesture; it’s then he notices the rigidity in Sehun’s stance, despite the taller leaning casually against the door. His arms are semi-crossed, one hand hanging from his shoulder and the other gripping his own shirt, as if protecting himself from something.

 

But as Jongin fiddles with his fingers and lets the air around them dance, he picks up on something other than apprehension in Sehun’s stare. When he realizes what it is, he can’t help but smile.

 

“I’m Kim Jongin, your new editor.” _Even his eyebrows are handsome_ , Jongin thinks as Sehun pertly raises one.

 

“Oh?” Sehun turns to Junmyeon. “And you’ve checked this, I presume?”

 

“He was the only Korean-looking man at the port and his face matches the pictures Kyungsoo sent me. So yes, this is Kim Jongin.”

 

“Anyone who can afford the sweatshirt and matching suede sneakers in Alexander Wang’s latest collection can certainly afford the best plastic surgeon in Korea to look like this Kim Jongin.” Said person in said luxury collection has the audacity to blush. He only bought the clothes because Kyungsoo wouldn’t stop badgering him about how his wardrobe should at least reflect his quality of work if he were to meet up with ‘the most eligible bachelor in Asia.’ Not that Kyungsoo was exaggerating—he literally was just quoting the magazine in his hand at the time, its front cover graced by the then-ginger model. “Regardless, editor or murderer, I pray you’re at least neater than _this_ slob,” Sehun adds pointedly.

 

“Friendly reminder that this _slob_ is your manager. And please save that imagination of yours for the books. Now excuse me, I have a new client to meet.” With that, Junmyeon turns on his heels to leave.

 

“You won’t call it imagination if I really die!” Sehun protests, but Junmyeon is already making a turn at the gate, heading towards the open garage. Yet despite all he’s said, Jongin could detect no hint of malice or suspicion in the other’s voice—just a very robotic mirth designed to probably prod his nerves, lest he turns out to be an actual thief (which he isn’t).

 

“I’m safe, you know,” Jongin says, bringing Sehun’s attention back onto him. It works, and Sehun stares quietly for a while, observing. Jongin notes how it’s the first time in the past five minutes that the other truly meets his eyes, and he decides that he likes that shade of dark brown.

 

Sehun is only a few centimeters taller than Jongin, but his chiseled jaw and broad-as-a-runway shoulders make him appear much bigger in both body and essence. His eyes make another split-second movement up and down Jongin’s body, and just like the first time, Jongin is quick to catch on, though he makes no comment on it.

 

After a minute of wordless eye contact, Sehun pushes himself off the front door, beckoning the editor to follow him inside the house, though not before hissing at him to arrange his shoes neatly on the rack. “Well, Kim Jongin, starting from now on, you’ll be stuck with me for the next few months, so I suggest you learn to adapt to my more than persnickety nature. Why don’t we start with how I like my house cleaned?”

 

**IV**

 

Sehun is nice enough to give Jongin the day off, but the forty-five-minute detour they took of the house—mansion, whatever—was enough to worsen Jongin’s jetlag. His head is throbbing, no thanks to the information his client just crammed into his head—information about how he wants his windows dusted, floor vacuumed, and banisters polished. And Jongin’s first guess had been right—Sehun _does_ attend to his garden personally every morning, raking the stones while listening to the faint sound of the waves bouncing against the bottom of the cliff every morning.

 

Jongin had been informed about Sehun’s clean-freak tendencies prior to the trip—the model had mentioned them to Kyungsoo and in a few of the interviews he’s given in the past—but the editor wasn’t aware that it would be _this_ bad. It’s only now that Jongin begins to understand why Sehun was willing to pay a hefty amount just for a “clean editor who cleans and edits well” (verbatim). The mansion is impeccably dust-free, and Sehun doesn’t seem like the type of person who would let a cleaner into the house even for an hour, not that that amount of time would be sufficient to clean the entire place to his standards.

 

Jongin looks around the guest room—now _his_ room for the next couple of months, at least until Sehun’s next book is finally out on the shelves. Did Sehun have this room specially prepared for him, or are all his guest rooms this clean? It gives an air of sterility, one that Jongin doesn’t mind but it sure does make his room in Seoul look dirty in comparison, even if there’s only one or two shirts out of place (or on the floor, when he’s _really_ feeling lazy). Heck, even the blankets in his new room were creaseless before Jongin had dumped himself on the bed.

 

Later that night, Jongin learns that aside from writing and modelling, Sehun is also a decent cook. He sits there in his college hoodie that’s worn to the point of bearing holes in them (Kyungsoo always makes fun of him for it, saying mice had chewed through the clothing), all the while watching Sehun’s back, the lines on his grey shirt defined by firm muscles. From his angle, Jongin has a good view of Sehun kneading and pulling the noodle dough, and he can’t help but lick his lips at the way strong arms bulge with the tiniest effort.

 

“I trust restaurants to cook my food as much as I trust the average Joe to come in and clean my house,” he says, setting a bowl of homemade ramen in front of Jongin before serving himself.

 

As the smell of the broth hits Jongin up-close, he gulps, feeling his salivary glands acting up. “So I’m not your average Joe then?” he asks, blowing on a spoon of soup and sipping it. He nearly moans. “Wow, this is really good.” He takes another greedy slurp, only belatedly blushing at his actions.

 

Sehun smiles, drinking his own spoonful of soup. He barely makes a sound, and Jongin only becomes pinker. “I once took a two-week course on how to make basic ramen, then spent the following few weeks perfecting the noodles and broth at home whilst procrastinating on my second novel. Junmyeon was furious,” the model explains, chuckling at the memory. “I also took a sushi course around that time, but rolling rice and seaweed together perfectly was something I gave up on quickly.”

 

From across the table, Jongin watches Sehun with a childlike countenance. The latter’s shoulders are as broad as usual but evidently laxer than when they first met a few hours back, and for once he isn’t scrutinizing Jongin with hawkish eyes through those flimsy glasses of his (that Jongin _knows_ for a fact to be fake). Having said that, there’s still prudence in the way Sehun holds his cutlery, in the way he picks his noodles up and lays them neatly onto his spoon without any evidence of a splash. The lack of noise he displays is almost trained, and the longer Jongin watches, the more surreal the whole thing feels. It’s almost as if Sehun’s every movement absorbs the sound from the air around him; coupled with his handsomeness, Jongin is only left watching moving art.

 

“The noodles are gonna get cold if you keep watching me like that.” Sehun’s words tear through the silence, making the air between them ripple. Snapping out of his reverie, Jongin is barely able to compute that this is the part where he’s supposed to be embarrassed for getting caught. Instead, he zones in on the change of air between them, and rather than tearing his eyes away, he continues watching, the corners of his lips threatening to quirk upwards when he senses that Sehun’s drinking from the bowl to hide his face. Unbeknownst to the model, his growingly pinkish ears betray his snarky remark.

 

“Sorry, was just thinking why you needed to hire a live-in editor when you look like you’ve pretty much got your life together,” Jongin says, taking a big mouthful of noodles. Thankfully, it’s still hot.

 

“Correction: I _do_ have my shit together. It’s just that Junmyeon’s worried I’ll end up cleaning the entire house everyday just to put off completing my book.”

 

Jongin blinks. “Would you actually do that?”

 

A snort escapes Sehun, one that Jongin finds almost endearing. “You underestimate the laziness of a rich young brat.”

 

“You wouldn’t be the rich young brat you are now if you’d been lazy though,” Jongin reasons.

 

“That’s true!” Sehun laughs, and there’s something calming about the way his voice staccatos in that _ha-ha-ha_ manner. “On the other hand, Junmyeon is a rich young brat just because.”

 

It’s the second time Sehun’s brought the manager unprompted, and Jongin can’t help himself from asking, “What’s your relationship with your manager?”

 

Sehun raises an eyebrow. “You just answered your question in the same sentence.”

 

“No—as in you guys seem closer than normal so it just made me wonder if—”

 

Sehun cuts him off, Jongin not missing the iciness that trails along. “He’s just my manager,” the model answers firmly. “We’re good friends too, if you’re wondering, but it doesn’t extend any more than…”

 

Jongin wonders if he’s hit a nerve, and his lips pout almost apologetically. “I didn’t—I’m sorry.”

 

“No, no, it’s fine.” The exasperation in Sehun’s sigh is hard to miss, though Jongin wonders if it’s really directed towards him. “But yeah, we’re just friends.” This time, Sehun’s smile is forced, and the tension is back in the air and in his shoulders. Jongin feels bad, and is about to apologize again when Sehun adds in finality, “Let’s enjoy the rest of our meal shall we? There’ll be the less mess to deal with if we do.”

 

Jongin can only nod his response. This time, the spoonful he takes is cold.

 

**V**

                                                                                                                                  

Dinner is spent over silence, but it’s broken when they start washing the dishes and argue over the ‘right’ order of doing it.

 

“It’s less wasteful if you just fill the tray with soap and water first!”

 

Sehun looks positively appalled at Jongin’s suggestion, clutching his newly dried bowl close to his chest. “Are you _insane?_ That’ll mean the gunk from the first dish get to the newer ones, which defeats the purpose of cleaning altogether!”

 

“Well, obviously you get rid of the gunk first, _and then_ —”

 

“And then what? Let the oil mix with the soap mixture?” Sehun’s face is twisted in absolute disgust, and at this point it takes Jongin all his willpower not to burst out in laughter. “You underestimate the power of grease.”

 

Jongin lets a snort out. He concedes, “Alright, alright, we’ll do it your way—”

 

“You’re making fun of me,” Sehun huffs, proceeding to turn the tap on and wash away the remnants of soap off the sides of the sink. “And don’t even think about doing it your way from now on, I have CCTVs in here.”

 

Jongin looks around. “No, you don’t.”

 

Sehun’s lips are now in a full-blown pout, and Jongin be damned if he doesn’t find it endearing as hell. “You’re right.” Once he’s done, Sehun wipes his hands with the nearest hand-towel, before turning to look Jongin dead in the eye. The latter preps himself to receive a threat when the other mumbles, “But please just wash the dishes my way while you’re in this house.”

 

Jongin is taken aback by how childlike he sounds—he’s vaguely reminded of the post-tantrum tears his niece would always shed, hiccupping while apologizing to her uncle. Except this time, it’s a grown ass man with a fortune under his belt, saying _please_ in the sweetest way possible. It pulls at his heartstrings, and Jongin just smiles and nods.

 

Satisfied, Sehun straightens up. “Okay, I might’ve been a bit too caught up with lecturing you about cleaning this afternoon, but I need to add on a few things about what you should expect from me as a writer.” _Finally, the actual business part_ , Jongin thinks. “One, I don’t leave my room during the day so don’t expect to see me wandering around. I’ll let you know when I want to leave the house. Two, don’t badger me about deadlines, I already have Junmyeon doing that for me,” he pauses, then adds, “since you know, it’s his job as my manager and all.”

 

Jongin decides not to address that part. “What if _I_ want to leave the house? And how do you eat if you don’t leave your room?”

 

“I don’t.” When Jongin gives him an incredulous look, Sehun shrugs. “Hunger helps me with writing. I just eat dinner most days. Again, if I’m going to eat lunch, I’ll tell you. You can take my car down to town whenever you want to buy groceries or eat out, assuming you know how to drive. The stores are easy to find since the roads here are all connected. If you get lost or in case of emergency, just contact Junmyeon or me. Speaking of which, I need your phone number.”

 

Jongin blinks. “I don’t have one.”

 

“You mean you haven’t bought a local number? I’m sure I have a spare one somewhere—”

 

Jongin cuts him off, “No, as in—I don’t have a _phone_.”

 

The raised eyebrow Sehun gives him tells him he’s waiting for a joke to crack anytime now, but when Jongin lets the silence stretch out, the taller man looks at him as if he’s grown a second head. “You don’t have a _phone?”_ Jongin shakes his head. “Did you lose it or something?”

 

“I broke it a few months ago.”

 

Processing this new information about his editor proves to be harder than Sehun imagined. “Wait—as in, you broke your phone a few months ago, and you haven’t bothered getting a new one since?” Jongin nods. “How the _hell_ do you keep in contact with people then?” The way Jongin carelessly shrugs his shoulders is almost infuriating. _Infuriatingly cute_ , his mind adds unhelpfully. “Are you aware of the time-period you’re living in now? How can you not have a phone?”

 

“Hey, I have a house phone,” Jongin defends himself, as if it makes the situation any better. “Plus, the people who need to contact me have my email, and I check that pretty regularly so I don’t think a phone is necessary.”

 

Sehun sighs in mild frustration, and the two continue bickering over the necessity, rather than luxury, of a phone in the twenty-first century for a good three minutes before the writer ends it all with, “Okay, we’re heading to the city this Sunday to get you a new phone.”

 

Jongin starts to protest, “But—”

 

“ _No_ buts, if you get lost somewhere and end up dying in the woods—”

 

“But the woods wouldn’t have reception—” Sehun sends a glare his way, and Jongin smacks his lips together abruptly.

 

“ _If you get lost somewhere and end up dying in the woods_ , I’d prefer it to be a result of your carelessness rather than my own negligence.”

 

To concede is Jongin’s only way of response, though he can’t help but ask, “Why not tomorrow then?”

 

“There’s a particular scene in the book that has me stuck, and I rather not go out until I have it perfectly worded.”

 

“You do know that’s what I’m here for right?” Jongin asks, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world (it is). “Just draft it roughly and—”

 

“No, no, not this particular scene, it needs to be perfect in order for the pieces to fall into place perfectly.” Sehun claws at his face with his sweater paws, and Jongin almost feels bad for asking. But then he suddenly remembers the way Sehun reprimanded him for ‘unnecessarily touching the stair rail and banister’ during the house tour, and he doesn’t feel so much pity anymore. He’s been through his share of nitpicky authors, but none as great of a quibbler as this one.

 

After a few more minutes of meaningless chat, Jongin bids the other goodnight and thanks for the meal before heading to his room, leaving Sehun to clear up the kitchen and switch the remaining lights off. He thinks that that’s the last he’ll see of the author for a while, before Sehun comes knocking on his door.

 

Jongin doesn’t hear it however, bathing in Jhené Aiko blasting through the speakers as he changes into a thinner shirt to sleep in. But just as he’s pulling his shirt over his head he feels a ripple in the air. He turns abruptly towards the door, now open with its space occupied by a familiar tall figure.

 

Sehun’s eyes encounter Jongin’s for a split second before they flit towards the floor, the lamp, the speaker and anywhere but. Suddenly the air is heavier than the bass that fills it, and the breeze that hits Jongin’s exposed side is cooler than usual. He rushes to push the hem of his shirt down the remaining show of skin, hurrying to turn the music down. He regrets it almost immediately, the ensuing silence even more deafening than the music it replaced. “Sehun?”

 

The taller snaps out of his reverie, a hand coming up to rub the span of his neck nervously. He clears his throat. “Um, I—I just wanted to say goodnight,” he mumbles unconvincingly, but given his current state, Jongin doesn’t think he’s capable of remembering what exactly it is he wanted to say.

 

Usually he’ll have some words of his own, a snarky remark, anything to cut through the awkwardness in the room right now, but Jongin feels overly conscious of this heaviness in the air. The conflict he senses is internal, and not his. It’s nothing too new, but it is complex. And Jongin never likes dealing with anything complex. But he realizes he lets the silence stretch too long when Sehun’s shoulders visibly slump, his change in posture indicating his leaving. In a state of mild panic, Jongin blurts out, “I’m going to get plants tomorrow.”

 

The air remains stagnant for a while, before it shifts again. It’s still unreadable, but the shift is towards a direction that’s lighter, less suffocating, and that’s enough for Jongin. “Plants…?” Sehun asks incredulously, though the relief in his voice doesn’t go unnoticed.

 

Jongin blushes. He reprimands himself mentally about how silly he must have sounded. “Yeah, I sort of… like to have plants around me. Sort of lightens up the atmosphere of the house a bit, don’t you think?” _You said ‘sort of’ twice, idiot_.

 

“I mean—I guess.”

 

“Do you wanna come with?” Jongin asks. “Oh, you said you’re busy, never mind. But do you want plants?”

 

Sehun blinks. It’s unlikely to happen and he knows it, but Jongin still readies himself for a condescending remark. Instead however, he gets a lowly mumbled, “White hydrangeas would be nice.”

 

Surprise paints Jongin’s face for a while, before it’s replaced with a smile. He barely notices the air growing warm with his chest, or that he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet like a little child. “Great! White hydrangeas it is then, I’ll get you some other ones as well.”

 

“I already have some cacti in my room, so no need to get me that,” Sehun adds. Jongin stores this tidbit of info in his head; then again if he does end up buying more cacti than needed, he can always keep them in some estranged part of the house to bring life to dead space and corners. Also because Sehun would be less likely to find them there, in case he pops a vessel at having his untainted air disturbed by some photosynthesizing greenies.

 

“Cool. So, did you need anything else?” Jongin asks.

 

Sehun shakes his head, and gives Jongin a little smile akin to a child bidding his mother goodbye before kindergarten. “No. Goodnight, Jongin. And I’ll say see you tomorrow but I probably won’t leave my room so, see you anon.” With that, the writer turns on his heels and shuts the door behind him.

 

Later on in bed, with the soft buzz of Clair de Lune lulling him to sleep, Jongin’s last brief thought is about how that was the first time the whole day Sehun called him by his name.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: tresbyun  
> tumblr: lheihairu


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